


Nothing Out of the Ordinary

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a perfectly normal night for Problem Sleuth. He's stumbling into a dark alley with the most dangerous man in Midnight City. Both of them are terribly drunk, as per the usual, and a kiss feels very much the same as a kick sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Out of the Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sannam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sannam).



> Sannam drew this: (http://sannam.tumblr.com/post/8320841205/mc-tm-directors-cut-aka-all-over-which-the) and I wanted some easy-to-write porn for them, my OTP.

It is a perfectly normal night for the two of you. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary occurs.

You drink too much, and loop arms around each other on the way to his nearest flat. You stop in doorways, in alleys, because while he's less angry when he's drunk (around you, at any rate), he's not noticeably less violent. He uses it as an expression of his esteem, which, because he's drunk, isn't cloaked in derision as it usually is. He tells you openly as he brings his fist into your stomach a couple times. "You're pretty (uhhhn) okay (hrrgh), Problem Sleuth."

You tell him to quit it, you already felt like you were going to puke, and this isn't helping. You knock him away with a roundhouse he'd have laughed at earlier in the night, but his coordination isn't so good anymore, and you sock him right in his pointy ratlike jaw. His scruff grates against your knuckles and it's extremely satisfying.

"Fuck you," he says, grinning and rubbing his chin. "I'll stop when I want." That's pretty much the way it always goes with Slick. Somewhere in the next thirty seconds the impulsive violent beatings turn into impulsive violent kisses, rapid and no less an attack than his fists were. His mouth seizes yours and the sounds you make are very much the same ones you made when you socked him in the face, eager striving wordless sounds. He tastes like anise- maybe it's the absinthe or maybe it's the liquorice, and you don't care because it's the taste of Spades Slick.

He has you backed up against the wall, and you're struck, as you always are, by how a man his size can push you around. Spades Slick is short, but he gains a foot and a half through sheer unreasonable, perverse will. He's skinny, but tough; body like a handful of piano wires. You love touching him, muscular but contained, the most dangerous capabilities in the city bound into a frame smaller than yours. It's like licking a loaded gun. Nothing more thrilling.

He's got his hips against yours, wrangling the angle somehow, grinding against you, a hand gripping your collar and another pressed into the wall over your shoulder. Yours are inside his open suit jacket, stroking his sides as you mash lips and teeth together, seizing around him to pull him closer and feel the contours of his body through his shirt. There's something about Spades Slick like nobody you've ever known, something you can't ignore, something that feels like it was meant just for you, and that everybody else had better back the fuck off because whatever it is, it's yours.

When he presses his fingers into the bulge tenting your pants, you almost close your eyes and let him do this in the alley, but you must have some hidden store of willpower because you get him back to his place without losing your pants or finishing in them before you've got a place to crash after (and you don't accept back alleys for this).

He slams the door without looking, leaping on you and stripping the both of you. He's impatient, a lazy tempest, and little things like buttons infuriate him. You've lost more in this apartment than you could have imagined. Maybe Slick is collecting them, and someday, you'll find out where. For now, you let him take your trench coat and throw it to the floor, strip your suspenders off your shoulders, your holster (which, to Slick's credit, he lays on the counter with an amount of loving tenderness, an expression he reserves for weapons, not people). You're down to your dress shirt, your undershirt, and pants, and he's thrown his jacket somewhere you can't see in the low light. His shirt is open, and he trips over his pants as he struggles out of them.

You like seeing how hard he is. That's all you. You palm his shaft, thumb against the tip, as your mouths meet again, and Slick starts moaning into you. A patch of wetness begins to seep through his boxers as you stroke him. It's weird doing it this way; out in the world, Slick is all dominance. Back here, he's surprisingly easy to manipulate, simple to drag to his bed with the crumpled black sheets and pin down. You've got the superior weight, and, more importantly, he wants it. He wants you.

You bend your head to his shoulder and kiss him, lick him, bite him, whatever gets the best sound. That's what you want. His hand clenches into the sheets, the other against your back. The fingers there dig into your shoulder blades and encourage you. You slide a hand down his side, over his hip. He is slim and small, strong and wired, perfectly and utterly desirable in how unlovable he is.

That's despite the scars, of course, or maybe a little because of them. Slick's been in too many knife faults, even if most of them were his own fault. You sink your teeth in around them, those areas of too-sharp feeling. He groans and arches against you and it's not very long before your hand slips into his boxers to wrap around him and start pumping. He wants you to go fast, he always wants that, but you know patience, dealing with him, and you start slow- real slow.

Eventually you bend your head down to take his tip in your mouth, then more as you get into it. His cock is twitching, pulsing with his heartbeat, and you find it unbelievably hot. Then he's pushing against you, struggling too through the haze you put over him. You like to control him, but you can't keep it forever; you like having him pinned beneath you, but it's not the only way the two of you get off.

He gets his hand around your own shaft as well, and grinds up into you as you stroke him. His other hand is still twisting into your back, fingers clenched into your shoulder blade and seizing there. "Yes," he breathes. His voice is harsh and rough in the silence of his otherwise empty apartment.

Then it's only an instant before he says it again, "Yes, oh fuck," and finishes. You wrap his hand closer around your cock and start fucking it, and then it's not long before you're coming too, sharp and now and so, so good.

You collapse on top of him, him with his small skinny swimmer's body and his scars, with his sweat and his moans, desirable Spades Slick, the center of the world. He is out first, but you curl up beside him, and fold your arm over him, and pull his slim body close.

It's nothing outside the ordinary, for which you assume you'll have to thank Providence or God or whoever, because you find it pretty fucking close to perfect, all told.


End file.
